


home is in the warmth of your smile

by Fic (EosRose)



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, POV Third Person, Podfic Welcome, Post-Prince Caspian, Present Tense, Same-Sex Marriage, Yuletide gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:18:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EosRose/pseuds/Fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year following the events of <i>Prince Caspian</i> finds our dashing young heroes (against all odds) in love and happily married.  When Caspian returns victorious from the war against the Northern giants in the dead of night, Peter is there to welcome him home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	home is in the warmth of your smile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snacky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snacky/gifts).



> Alas, I started writing a getting-together story, full of misunderstandings and humour, but that story wanted to be 10,000+ words long and I hadn’t the time to devout to such an undertaking, so this was where my mind jumped to next. Fluffy and sweet may not be how one would generally classify the Caspian and Peter relationship, but I couldn’t resist.
> 
> I hope you will accept this gift in the spirit in which it was given, my dear snacky. May all your Yuletide wishes come true!

The antechamber is dark but for a single candle flickering next to the washbasin.

Stepping carefully, Caspian presses the door closed behind him and leans against it, stealing a moment to close his tired eyes and breathe in the familiar scent of home.

Home.  Finally, after two months of campaigning against the giants at the kingdom’s northern border, he has returned.  No more draughty tents, no more hasty meals, no more bloody _waiting_ for the worst to happen.  The war is done, he has returned victorious, and—Aslan willing—the giants will refrain from doing violence against his people for at least another generation.

Life is good.  It’ll be even better once he’s able to crawl into bed and—

“Caspian?”  The sleepy murmur drags Caspian from his musings.  He opens his eyes to see Peter’s beloved face peering at him from the entryway to their shared sleeping quarters.  The candlestick in Peter’s hand wavers.  A few drops of hot wax drip onto the stone floor before Peter notices and hastily deposits the candlestick onto the nearby tabletop.

They stand still, facing each other, drinking each other in for what could have been seconds or hours. 

Peter looks well.  Healthy. 

And, uh, yes, he’s wearing one of _Caspian’s_ silk nightshirts.  Which is much too big on him.  The fabric flows loose around him, the hem resting just above his knees and the sleeves extending past the tips of his fingers.  Frankly, he resembles a child drowning in his father’s purloined clothes.

 It’s endearing.  Caspian has to fight the urge to scoop him up and coddle him (because Peter would _kill_ him if he actually tried).

Finally Caspian says, “I didn’t mean to wake you,” which earns him a narrow-eyed glare.

“Really.”  Peter’s voice is alarmingly flat.  “You’ve been gone for _ages_ , leaving me here to _worry_ like some lovesick soldier’s wife, and you weren’t even going to wake me to let me know of your safe return?”

“I, uh—” Caspian gestures helplessly toward the still untouched washbasin.  “Well, no, not precisely.  I mean, I _was_ going to wake you.  I just needed five mintues to myself first.”  Because he hasn’t had a proper wash in something like two days, his clothes are filthy with dust and sweat, and he’s pretty sure he smells like horse.  He doesn’t want to be seen like this, not by Peter.

“Idiot,” Peter says, expression softening, and closes the distance between them.  Caspian offers no resistance when his husband’s sword-calloused fingers curve around the back of his neck to guide him in for a welcoming kiss, their first in far too long.  His lips are soft and minty-sweet with balm.

Delicious.  Caspian can’t help but suck the bottom lip into his mouth, can’t stop himself from nipping gently at the tender flesh the way he knows Peter likes.  Peter moans beautifully, invitingly, and that’s when Caspian knows that he could ravish Peter right now, right here in the antechamber—up against the bloody door so that anyone who happened to pass by would know—and there would be no objections.  The very idea is stimulating beyond expectation, but it’s not what Caspian wants.  Not tonight.

So he ends the kiss.  “Sorry,” he murmurs.  “I just…”

“I know,” Peter whispers.  “I missed you.”  And he buries his face into the curve of Caspian’s neck with a sigh, hugging him tightly.  Caspian returns the hug, just as tightly, marvelling at his good fortune.  There had been moments in the heat of battle when he’d feared that he’d never hold Peter again.  He’d understood the necessity of one of them remaining behind; that hadn’t made the separation any easier to bear.

Then, “Oh,” says Peter, “you smell positively foul.”

Laughter bubbles up until Caspian is fairly shaking with it.  How positively _Peter_ to ruin the moment with such utter frankness!

“I did say that I needed five minutes didn’t I?” says Caspian, reluctantly releasing his hold on Peter.  The washbasin is calling his name.  Purposefully he heads toward it, murmuring over his shoulder, “Why don’t you head back to bed?  I’ll join you when I’m a mite less repulsive.”

“Don’t take too long.”  Like a phantom Peter glides out of the room, taking his candlestick with him.

Within minutes Caspian is wrapped in the crisp robe the chambermaid has laid out for him and feeling infinitely more human—though he still wishes a proper bath were possible.  Tomorrow he’ll indulge himself.  Perhaps Peter could be persuaded to join him.

Swiping up the candlestick next to the washbasin, Caspian enters the bedchamber to find Peter tucked comfortably under the covers, arms wrapped tightly around his pillow, eyes closed in peaceful repose.  Has he fallen asleep already?  Placing the candlestick down on the bedside table beside the one Peter has already doused, Caspian perches on the edge of the bed and reaches out to caress the slope of his jaw with a careful touch.

Dark eyelashes flutter open and—with fond amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth—Peter grasps the wrist of the hand resting on his jaw and guides Caspian’s fingers toward his parted lips.  Coyly—something fey and daring alight in his fathomless blue eyes—Peter sucks Caspian’s forefinger into his mouth in a blatant tease.

Breath hitching, Caspian hisses, “You beautiful, awful creature,” and swoops down to replace his finger with his tongue.  This kiss is filthy, wet, frantic, fueled by days’ and weeks’ and months’ worth of pent-up desire—and not even close to enough.  Blankets are shoved aside and suddenly Caspian is the one lying flat on his back, robe torn open, Peter smugly straddling his hips.  “What—?  How—?”  Caspian is promptly distracted by the realization that his not-so-innocent lover is stark _naked_ underneath that nightshirt.  And aroused.  The arousal bit is really hard not to notice, what with Peter’s cock being pressed flush against his own.

“Hush.”  Leaning down, Peter brushes chaste kisses to Caspian’s forehead, to his nose, and to both corners of his mouth.  “You’ve been travelling for days—didn’t even stop when night fell tonight, even though you should have.  You’re exhausted.  Let me take care of you.”

How could anyone refuse such a request?

Hands going to Peter’s hips, Caspian holds Peter in place and grinds his hips upward in unmistakable approval.  “Honestly, I don’t think I’m in any shape to be engaging in anything too strenuous,” he admits.  “My stamina is not what it usually is.  But I _do_ want to feel you, so, please—do as you will.”

“Bloody hell,” Peter groans.  “Right.  Um, so maybe—”  His laugh is rough and low.  “Oh, never mind.  Just—  Just kiss me.  And I’ll take care of the rest.”

From there it’s all a messy blur of lips and teeth and tongue.

Peter fucks like he fights: all passion and fire and spirited cunning.  Shamelessly he frots down against Caspian as they kiss, the friction alone enough to bring them to the brink of panting, quivering ecstasy.  Regrettably, being straddled does not leave much leeway for reciprocation—or, at least, it doesn’t when one’s partner pauses to glower meaningfully each time one attempts to gain any control over the situation.  All Caspian can do is run his hands encouragingly over the curve of his lover’s arse and make muffled, stuttering sounds that might have resembled begging had Peter’s hot mouth not been devouring him like a boy might a tray of Turkish delight.

Finally, just as Caspian thinks he might go mad, Peter reaches down between them to grasp both their aching cocks with one hand and stroke them both to groaning completion, Caspian arriving first with Peter following quickly after.

Their bellies are messy with come, but that doesn’t stop Peter from plastering himself over Caspian like a blanket so that he can suck a bruise low on Caspian’s neck, staking a claim.“I thought you wanted to ride me—that or fuck me,” says Caspian, much too boneless and sated to comment on Peter’s vampiric tendencies.  Or on the fact that he’s losing circulation in one of his legs.  He doesn’t actually want Peter to move.

Removing his mouth from Caspian’s throat, Peter meets Caspian’s eyes with impish humour, saying, “The idea had occurred to me.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“It’s arse o’clock in the morning.  I’m tired, you’re tired, and we were both too worked up to last long.”  Peter shrugs, feigning innocence.  “Don’t worry.  We can try out as many different positions as you like tomorrow, once I’ve terrified our advisors into giving us a day free.  But for now: sleep.”

“Sounds like a plan,” replies Caspian, satisfied—though his satisfaction is significantly diminished when Peter rolls off him and off the bed to pad out of the room.  When Peter returns with the damp cloth Caspian cleaned himself with earlier, however, all becomes clear.  Peter wished to take care of him; part of that apparently includes making sure they don’t wake up the following morning to a tacky, sticky film of dried come smeared all over their skin.

Efficient as ever, Peter washes them both, tosses the filthy cloth onto the bedside table, douses the candle, and crawls back into Caspian’s arms.

“Welcome home, my love.”  Peter presses one last sleepy kiss to Caspian’s temple as he settles back into Caspian’s arms, where he belongs.

It’s good to be home.

They sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> All my gratitude goes out to **noxelementalist** and **tevildo** for their help polishing this story into something acceptable for public consumption. ♥


End file.
